


Tuesday Afternoons in the Churchyard

by Quietbang



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Child Abuse, Kidfic, Legal, M/M, PTSD, Substance Abuse, Support Groups, Swearing, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-08
Updated: 2012-05-24
Packaged: 2017-10-27 02:01:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 19,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/290438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quietbang/pseuds/Quietbang
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the following prompt: Charles and Erik meet at a support group for survivors of abuse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

1/3ish, I think.

There are _workbooks_.

This, it seems, is the answer he has been missing all of these years.

Instead of training ruthlessly for his eventual revenge against the man who _ruined his fucking life_ , he should have been filling out workbooks on dealing with emotional trauma.

Or so was the subtext of the speech that Martin, a sickeningly sympathetic grin plastered across his stupid face, gave to welcome the new members of the group.

Also, what the actual fuck was he doing here? (Aside from the obvious court order) These people- were _soft_ , and _damaged_ and he- look, whatever his worker might think, he's not fucking _broken_ , okay? The shit that Shaw did didn't break him- he was like iron ore exposed to fire, purified until all the useless shit runs off and what remains is hard, and strong, and unbreakable.

(To be fair to Dr. Frost, the fact that, immediately after he had told her that, he had mentioned that he used to pretend that he really _was_ metal, probably lent some credence to the good doctor's opinions regarding his mental state.

That, and the fact that Erik still sleeps with a knife under his pillow, and it's been six years since he applied for emancipation and won.)

Christ, it's not like he killed him or something! (Granted, that had been the _intention_ , but the cops didn't have to know that.) In the end, all he's done was given him a concussion and a broken jaw- Shaw had done far worse to Erik, over the years.

ALso, he shouldn't be here because these people are scared of him. Not that he blames them. He's kinda scared of him, too.

They try to hide it, some better than others, but, the truth is- Erik is big, and strong, and clearly capable of bashing your skull in. It's probably why the one partner he ever attempted to tell the stories behind his scars reacted with such suprise- because to them, he didn't look like a victim, because he fucking _wasn't_.

He survived, and he's alive, and relatively sane, and only occasionally gets drunk off his skull, or beats someone up in a bar fight, and they were usually asking for it.

It makes him furious that people equate him with the assholes who harmed them. Because Erik Lehnsherr is many things, and nice isn't one of them, but he would never- will never- hurt a fucking child.

These people are pathetic, anyway. Now they've come to the part of the meeting where they _share_. How _sweet_. They talk about flashbacks, about court cases, about advice for dealing with triggers. (Not that he cares, but that thing about the mint, he'd have to look into that.)

He's stopped looking at the speakers, preferring to doodle incredibly detailed schematics for a robot (as soon as he was done his fucking community service, he was going to university. Dr Frost claimed that living well was the best revenge. As far as Erik was concerned, she could go fuck herself, but there was probably some truth to that.) in the corner of his workbook, sickeningly titled _From Suriving to Thriving_.

Then, he hears a new voice. Like him, it had been silent the entire time, but unlike him, it so clearly shouldn't be here. The voice is posh, and English, and reeks of old money and clotted cream. It shouldn't even be in the 21st century, let alone in the basement of a fucking Anglican Church in Queen's.

"Er. Hello, everyone. I'm Charles, and, to be perfectly honest, I'm not sure if I should even be here. I'm fine, really. I've dealt with this all my life on my own, I don't see- but that's neither here nor there.

"I was- well, you know how it goes. I suspect it's rather a cliché story, and not one we need to get into now. The point is, I left home 6 years ago, when I was 16, and I haven't looked back. It- it didn't affect me, not as it seems to- I mean, everyone has nightmares, foods they won't eat, places on their bodies they don't like touched. That's normal.

"Anyway, I left, and I tried," his voice scratched like sandpaper, "I tried to bring my sister with me, but she wouldn't come. So I- I had to leave, you understand, I couldn't, I was going to die there, I- sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry. That was silly of me. What I meant to say is, I left, and Raven- my sister- she wouldn't speak to me after that. I haven't heard from her in nearly 6 years.

"Then, a few weeks ago, the," his voice broke again. "Sorry, I'm being childish, I'll stop. The police knocked on my door, and told me that R-rav-Raven was dead, and that she'd left me her child to care for.

"My- my housemate h-had made it apparent to me that, um, some things I think are normal, aren't. Which- where does that leave me? I-I don't know how to take care of a kid. What if I'm like my parents? What- what if I fuck it up? I don't know what you're supposed to do, how in the bloody hell am I supposed to know if I fuck it up?" He stopped. and visibly collected himself.

"Anyway, that's why I'm here, I guess. To figure this out."

There was applause, and murmured words of empathy throughout the group.

"Thank you for that, Charles. I'm sure I'm not alone when I say that I am glad that you found us, and that I hope we can help you find some of the healing you need." Martin smiled. Someone should get the man an injured kitten to take care of, or something.

Charles made a desperate, half-choked sound that might have ben a giggle or a hiccup.

He stood. "Excuse me, I'm sorry, may I be excused for a moment? I think I need some air."

He rushed out of the room, hands fumbling with a cigarette packet.

Making no such apologies, Erik rose to follow.


	2. Chapter 2

Charles, it seems, either does not see him or does not want to, because Erik is not more than four or five metres behind him, but he does not look back. Instead, he half-runs out the door, and does not stop until he is leaning, face-first, against the filthy brick wall.

His left leg drags slightly behind him, as though it can not quite bear his weight, and Erik would quite like to kill someone now, thank you very fucking much.

Charles breathes, trying and failing to get himself back under control. He fumbles with the cigarette package-once, twice- finally succeeding in removing a cigarette.

He does not jump when Erik approaches him, does not start with fright. Instead, there is a slight, sharp intake of breath and a subtle tensing of the shoulders that tells Erik his presence has been noted.

Charles attempts to light his cigarette, barely-repressed tremors jumping like spiders through his pale, delicate fingers. Less than three seconds after he finally succeeds, it is extinguished by the cold November wind.

"Oh, _fucking hell_ ," Charles mutters. "This just isn't my day, is it?"

He turns to face Erik. "I'm terribly sorry, my friend, but you wouldn't happen to have-"

Wordlessly, he hands him an already lit cigarette.

"Oh, thank _Christ_. Sorry. It's been a hell of a day."

Erik could sympathise. "It's alright. Not a big deal."

They stand in silence, for a while, smoke drifting out into the cold winter air.  
Finally, Charles breaks it. "Er, I'm sorry, but I seem to have forgotten your name."

Erik flicks away a bit of ash. "I didn't give it."

"Not in the...?" Charles trails off.

"They can force me to come here. They can't make me say anything."  
Well, he'd like to see them _try_ , anyway. Emma Frost is the first counsellor or case worker in years that he has been unable to make cry.

"Quite." Charles murmurs in agreement.

Erik makes a decision. "Erik. I'm Erik." he extends his hand, and Charles takes it, his rough calluses rasping against the other's smooth, warm flesh.

"I'm Charles," Charles said.

"I know," Erik points out.

Charles winces. "Yes, er, sorry about that. I was a bit of a mess in there, wasn't I?"

Erik shrugs. He's seen worse. This is only the latest in a long line of court/CPS ordered 'support groups' and 'workshops' he's been required to attend. At least this time they hadn't had to do any trust-building exercises.

"Yeah, kind of," Erik says, "But at least you didn't cry. That's something, right?"

Charles nods. "Still, it must have been- I'm dreadfully s-"

"If you apologise to me one more time, I'm going to get very angry, only I swore I wasn't going to get in any more fights, so I'm going to have to punch this wall, and then I'll have a broken hand, and then how will you feel?"

Charles gives him a watery half-smile. "Fair enough, I suppose."

"Damn right it is."

With a sigh, Charles finished his cigarette and crushed the stub beneath the hell of his his boot. His mouth pinched up as he looks at the door that will take them back into the church.

Erik rolled his eyes. He wasn't seriously planning on going back in there, was he? Nobody had come out after them, which, as far as Erik was concerned, was default permission to get the fuck out. Besides which, they were adults, technically. They could do whatever they wanted.

"Do you want to get some coffee?"

Charles looked at him with startled eyed. "But-"

"Fuck them. They won't even notice we're gone. Or did you really want to go back and talk about _feelings_?"  
A small shudder ran through his body.

Charles mirrored it. "Not particularly, no."

"Then what are you complaining about? C'mon, I know a good place not to far from here."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Good is a relative term. It is small, and damp, and dingy, and the food was abysmal and it smelled like old cigarette smoke- which is ridiculous, because you haven't been able to smoke in restaurants in this city for _years_ , but the coffee tasted like heaven and it was cheap.

"So what do you do?" Charles asked, stirring liberal amounts of cream into his inky black coffee.

"I'm a janitor at Grover Cleveland.” Erik tilted his chin, daring Charles to say something about it.

Instead, he nodded. “I teach at Forest Hill. Biology and Physics.”

Erik raised his eyebrows. He wasn't very good at small talk, and he knew it, and this man was attractive, so he probably shouldn't piss him off, but- “You seem rather _young_ to be a teacher.”

“'I am neither as young as I look nor as old as I feel', Erik.”

Erik was _so_ not touching that one.  
Still.  
Erik opened his mouth to prod, but Charles stopped him. “What did you mean, they could make you go but not talk? Who made you go?”

Erik rolled his eyes. “The courts. Apparently I am 'emotionally underdeveloped' and 'a threat to society' until such time as I 'deal with my unresolved trauma'.”

“I see.”

“No, you really fucking don't.” Erik spat, suddenly furious. “I tried to kill someone, okay? I tried to kill the man who- who made me _this_ , and I failed, and I failed so fucking hard that they didn't even think I was trying to kill him, which is the only reason I'm not in fucking jail, but I still failed and he's alive and he's out there and he's respected and _well-liked_ and apparently they only have my fucking word against his that anything ever happened anyway, which is ridiculous because-” Erik paused, breathing harshly, and rolled up his sleeves, exposing the harsh puckers of burned flesh, the thin, scalpel-sharp lines of _science_. “And it's not even like they don't _believe_ me, but the statute of limitations has run out, and who'd take the words of a fucking dumb junkie against a _doctor_ anyway?”

He slams a fist on the table in fury, and then- _oh, fuck._ Because Charles has gone quiet, and small, and strained, every muscle in his body vibrating with anxiety, and has somehow positioned himself with his back against the wall, like a fucking scared dog.

He isn't looking at him- well, that's not true, those fucking blue eyes are tracking his every move, his every twitch, but there is glazed quality to them that Erik recognizes well enough to know that he's not looking at _him_.

“Hey. Fuck, man, I'm sorry. Charles?” Erik waves his hand fruitlessly. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

Charles finally _looks_ at him, his eyes back to their normal state, and he's got this _look_ on his face, self-loathing and anger jumbled up, creating lines of age where before there were none.  
He attempts to smile. “Sorry about that, my friend. I zoned out for a moment. What were you saying?”

Erik shakes his head. “It doesn't matter.” An idea strikes him, because clearly this conversation is lacking something, and it's lubrication. “Hey- want to go grab a drink?”

Charles raises an eyebrow. “It's four-thirty. Oh, fuck, it's _four-thirty_ I promised Moira I'd be back-” he checks his watch, “-five minutes ago, actually.”

“Girlfriend?” Erik asks, casually.  
Charles laughs. “God, no. Housemate. Friend. She's looking after Kurt this afternoon- oh God I am in so much trouble-” He shoves a wrinkled ten dollar bill on the table, scribbles something on a post-it note, and moves swiftly out the door.

Erik sinks deeper into the cracked vinyl bench, and fiddles with a dented metal spoon.

The post-it has a number on it. A _phone_ number, presumably.  
Ignoring the voice in his head that sounded like Dr Frost muttering words like 'bad idea' and 'co-dependency', Erik picked up the post-it and put it in his pocket with a smile.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know how I said there would be 3 parts, and this would be short? I lied. This is going to be looooooooooooong. This fucking universe has grabbed hold of me and won't let go. I can't quite promise everything will be groovy mutants and nothing hurts, not the least of which because this is a no-powered AU, but I can promise that Erik won't shoot Charles in the spine, so that's nice. The Grand Tragedy will not be there- because to my mind, it's the little ones that are the killer. Sorry, I'll stop rambling now.
> 
> Massive thanks to Beth, as this is the first chapter I've posted of any of my fics that has been edited by someone who is not me. Despite having no knowledge of the source material, she did an admirable job. (If anyone wants to volunteer to beta this fic or AMOP or Crash on the Levy, let me know in the comments. It would be greatly appreciated.)
> 
> Also, I don't speak Polish, and my knowledge of Judaism extends to things I've interrogated from my friends and girlfriend. So, uh, if I need correcting, please give it to me.

Erik walked back to his apartment, the driving November wind cutting through his leather jacket. He pulled his collar tight against the hungry ghosts that attacked him at every corner.

 _The laundromat where Mama had worked, where her boss had kept a bowl of peppermints in his drawer, just for him. The look of disappointment on her face when Erik came in one cold winter day, blood smeared down his torn denim jeans and thin sweater. She had not said anything, merely brushed the dirt off his collar and bandaged his wounds._

 _It was not until later, when they had returned to their dingy Elmhurst apartment, that she sat him down, mug of tea in hand, and spoke to him._

 _“Erik, my darling boy,” she had said, soft-spoken as always, “Do not let them make you into this. You are better than that. Better than this.”_

 _The smell of bleach was overwhelming in the small apartment. It smelled like pride._

 _“But, Mama-” Erik had said, frustrated at not being able to find the words, “They hate me. I'm-”_ Different _, with his old-fashioned clothes and his accent, a Polak and a Jew, his pale body and his long limbs._

 _His mother silenced him with a single look. She reached across the cracked vinyl tabletop and took his hand in hers, rough from years of chemicals stripping away layer after layer of skin and dignity._

 _“Erik, listen to me. They have to teach you how to hate, my son. It is not a lesson I want you to learn, my beautiful boy. You can be so much more than this.”_

 _Erik nodded, suitably chastened. “Yes, Mama. I will make you proud.”_

 _“Silly boy,” his mother had said. “You already have. Look at you, my brilliant American son. Look at what you can do.”  
_  
What would she think of him now?

 _”They have to teach you how to hate, my son."_

He had learned the lesson well. But- what choice had he had? The boy his Mama had raised, the one she was proud of- that boy had died with her, had wept over her broken body, had carefully covered that bruised shell with blanket so that the police would not immediately see her torn undergarments.

That boy was dead, because he had to survive, and that boy would not. That boy would have screamed when Shaw first branded him, would have wept when he strapped him down, would have meekly swallowed the pills and taken the injections- that boy would have died, anyway, and at least this way Erik had had some control over his death.

He passed Tifereth Israel, where he had attended Torah lessons, where his mother's funeral had been held.  
“Yitgaddal veyitqaddash shmeh beʻalma di vra khir'uteh rabba veyamlikh malkhuteh veyatzmaḥ purqaneh viqarev qetz meshiḥeh,” he paused.  
What was the rest?  
“beḥayekhon...” he began, but stopped.

Who was he kidding? He had not set foot in a synagogue since his mother's death nearly ten years ago, and he has long since forcibly forgotten that life. He refused to sully those memories with the horror that followed.

He hurried along the streets. There were too many ghosts, he would pay them no mind. No man yet has died from memories.

It is strange, though, that it is these ones that cut like a knife, rather than the ones with Shaw. He has no problem in Forest Hill- he quite likes it, in fact, but here, among his childhood homes, he feels undone.

They call at him from every turn

 _“Erik, be nice.”_

 _“Fucking Polak!”_

 _“Go back to where you came from, motherfucking faggot!”_

 _“Come here, my darling.”_

 _“Your mathematical abilities are exceptional, Erik. Have you considered a career..?”_

 _“Kocham cię, my beautiful boy. Kocham cię.”_

 _“I'm so proud of you, my son. Go make your Mama proud.”  
_

With a mental cry of frustration, he gives up. He can afford the bus fare, today. Anything to leave this place, which reminds him of all the is and should be. Where his mother's warm, brown eyes and pale skin, weathered before her time by _hungerfearhatehope_ , seem to lie in every shadow.

It is when he is on the bus, gazing mindlessly out the window at the ugly, plastic sided houses, each of which houses three families or more, that he sees him again. A mop of brown hair and a threadbare woollen coat, collar turned up against the wind. He is not sure it is him, at first, until he sees the slight limping gait of the man as he struggles to balance a bag of groceries on one arm as he opens the door with the other.  
Charles.  
Apparently, he will be seeing a lot more of this place, and its ghosts.

He tries to be angry about that. It doesn't quite work.

The number burns a hole in his pocket.

There are a million reasons to get rid of it, but, as the bus rushed by, he catches a glimpse of the anxious joy that crosses Charles' face as a small, black-haired boy flings himself at his legs, and he can't bring himself to remember a single one.

Suddenly, he can't wait until Tuesday.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tiny update is tiny! But I needed to split up this next bit, because the next bit clocks in at almost 5000 words. So, uh, yeah. Go me?

As he padded through the sleet-sodden streets, the clean smell of winter tinged with gasoline and fried food clung to his leather jacket.

He glanced down at the workbook in his hands.

Because the thing is, it was wrong.

It's about survival. It's always about survival.

There's no deeper-meaning to it, no long-term goal. Just- staying alive, and staying strong, so that one day you can show them. Show them that you're not weak, not scared, that you never believed the lies they told you about yourself. Even if you secretly did.

The thing that people don't understand is that the body can be conditioned htrough pain, like metal beneath a flame and a hammer: bent into a new shape, better or worse than before.  
Physical pain is nothing. You can hit someone, kick them, break their bones, and all that happens is you make them harder to bruise.

You can condition them to fear you, to flinch away from your anger and your hatred, but all that does it heighten their reflexes, give them another tool to escape.  
Disassociation and strength and fear are hard-learned lessons, but they are lessons that enable you to survive. And, in the end, you live, and that's enough.

It comes at a price. A price of nightmares, of anger, of days spent trying desperately to keep out of your own fucking mind, where a thousand fucking bear-traps await you.

But you're alive.

You're alive, and, if you're lucky, you realise that that wasn't how things are supposed to be. You survive, and if you're lucky, you don't pass it on out of some fucked-up need to normalise your own existence.

You survive, and life goes on, and it's not perfect or _thriving_ or some fucked-up fairytale, but it's life.

Erik learned at an early age that life is hard. Life is hard, and harsh, and unfair. Life kicks you and kicks you and kicks you until you're on the ground, until you think you'll break, until you're begging for mercy, until all you want to do is give up. But you don't, because that is a luxury you don't have.

Instead, you get up, and you _fight back_ , and maybe you lose. Maybe you don't win today, or tomorrow, or a million other times. But you're alive, and you did not break, and you're on you feet and still fighting- and that's what matters.

(He'd tried to explain that to Cassidy, once, when they were both drunk and a little high. He hadn't got it. But Angel and Azazel had looked at him, Angel full on, Azazel out of the corner of his eye, and there was understanding there, and Erik realised that they knew what he said was true because they'd felt it. To anyone else, it sounds mad, but there is a club of people with scars and strength and chips on their shoulders a mile wide, and they know it to be true.)

His thoughts drifted back to Charles, and the black haired boy, and he narrowly resisted pressing his fingers to his ears to stave off the memories of Magda, and the twins, because he didn't blame her, not really. She was scared of him, and she deserved better, and Erik's an asshole but he's not stupid. He knows that he wouldn't have been able to deal with kids then. He'd been 16- he's only 22 now, for fuck's sake, no mater how old he sometimes felt.

He didn't wonder where they were, he _didn't_. Or how old they were. ~~Or their names~~.


	5. Chapter 5

By the time he reached the stairwell of the apartment building, it was sleeting, that grey, terrible sleet that seems to be made of nothing more than frozen spit and coal dust. It smelled faintly acidic.

He was greeted by the overwhelming smell of cabbage and urine. The cabbage he was blaming on Azazel, and, well, Sean has a theory that all apartment buildings of a certain age and vintage spontaneously _secrete_ urine and cigarette smoke.  
(He'd insisted that that was the first step in their process of becoming sentient. Erik had flushed his acid stash down the toilet in retaliation.. Seriously, if he couldn't fucking handle the high, he should stick to weed. )

It didn't help his mood when he saw a girl leaving the apartment, pale and beautiful, with a shocking white streak in her hair and the sort of face that a guy would look twice at before he ran as far and as fast as he could, because there was something fragile, and damaged, and dangerous as fuck playing about the cheekbones, crystal's artificial flame burning in her eyes.

Erik pushed by her carefully, because yeah, he was an asshole, but he wasn't going to just shove a _girl_ out of the way.

"Cassidy, tell me that she's of age. Tell me you're not that much of an idiot." he called as he stomped his worn boots on the entry mat.  
“I didn't exactly ask for _ID_ , man.” The redhead stretched like a cat, but otherwise did not move from the ratty tartan sofa.

“Don't let Logan hear you say that,” a warm, sarcastic female voice drifted in from the kitchen.

It was followed by the smell of _actual_ food, which was nice. By virtue of the employment status of everyone save Erik, and Erik's intense apathy on the matter, their diets tended towards the hot dogs and packet noodles type. “I'm pretty sure she was a friend of Laura's.”

Angel and Alex had an ongoing bet as to whether Logan's sister was a vigilante or a prostitute. Privately, Erik thought that one didn't necessarily preclude the other.

Erik looked at her. “I'm not telling him, are you?”

Angel opened her mouth in what was obviously going to be a witty retort, but was interrupted by the splinter of shattering glass and raised voices.

Erik raised an eyebrow at Angel.

She sighed. “The hot French guy's home again. Apparently sister dearest doesn't approve.”

She bangs on the wall, dislodging a faint _fwish_ of plaster particles.

The noise dies down, before a deep mans voice calls out “Va dont chier mon tabarnak!”

Erik smirks. He's always been good with languages.  
“Timtsos li!” he responds.

If nothing else, the weird chick in 221 would get a kick out of that. Erik remained undecided as to whether she was an Israeli spy or a dominatrix catering to very specific, Orthodox tastes.

Alex rolled his eyes form his place in the corner, where he sat sprawled on the cracked linoleum, phone in hand. “Jesus Christ, are Cassidy and I the only normal people in this building?”

“Well, I wouldn't say _that_ , “ Sean drawls.

Angel smacks him as she walks by to give Erik a hug, which he tolerates with good grace, only shoving her away after nearly a full six seconds.

“How'd it go?” She asks curiously. “I haven't seen you in this good a mood in ages.”

Erik shrugs.

She rolls her eyes. “Don't give me that. You usually come back looking like you want to kill someone. Are you drunk?” Her eyes narrow, then widen in horror. “Oh, shit, you haven't _actually_ killed anyone, have you? Because I'm pretty sure you're our only source of bail money, and Alex isn't working at the foundry anymore, so he can't even help you hide the body.”

She giggled, and Sean held his hand up in wordless congratulations.

Erik's lip twitched. “Very funny, Angel. No, as it happens, I didn't kill anyone.”  


She playfully smacked his shoulder. He never understood how, out of all the people in the universe, these assholes were the only ones who didn't seem to be scared of him.

If someone had consulted _Erik_ in the matter, he might have suggested, say, his boss, or the old lady who's grass he trimmed as people in whom it would be nice to not inspire terror. At least then the not-being-scared thing might translate into actual cash money as opposed to poorly cooked tuna casseroles and annoyance. (And cheap weed. Can't forget the cheap weed.)

“So, _Erik_ ,” Sean said with a smirk. “You're coming home with Angel and me, right? Mom's always asking about that nice young man I live with.”

Alex snorted. “Makes you sound like a fag, bro.”

Erik glared at him. “I will punch you in the face, Cassidy.” His tone was not particularly threatening.

Sean threw a pillow at him. “Nah, Mom's just worried about him. It hurts her poor, dear heart to think of someone being alone at Christmas.”

“Did you remind her I'm Jewish?”

Angel grinned. “I wouldn't. I told her I was a stripper, that's just made her more determined to have me over for dinner. Last time she said something about St Mary Magdalene having been a prostitute.” She wrinkled her nose. “Sean, dearest, why does she think I'm a prostitute?” Her tone was falsely polite, implied menace in every word.

Sean sighed. “Because she's old and doesn't understand that there's a difference. Besides, she may think you're a prostitute- but you're a _Catholic_ prostitute, and that's what matters.”

Angel slapped him playfully. “Great.” her tone turned serious. “Erik, you should come. You shouldn't be by yourself on the holidays- they're about family.”

 _I don't have a family,_ Erik thought. It didn't bother him, necessarily, but facts are facts.

Sean beat him to it. “Don't be such a bitch, he's an _orphan_ , remember? It's very tragic.”

“I _know_ , which is why I invited him to come with _us_ , you fuckwit.”

“He probably has family,” Alex pointed out. “I betcha there's an entire town of scary fucking Lehnsherrs in Germany.”

“Yeah, man, somewhere along the line some, like, evil princess fucked a shark, and BAM! Instant Lehnsherrs.”

“I'm Polish,” Erik pointed out, feeling like an idiot. Really, that was the only thing wrong with that sentence?

“Whatever, same thing. Man, you should be thanking me- Angel was getting ready to hug you again, you poor widdle orphan.”

What followed was a jumble of shrieks, squeals, and one very suspicious squeltch.

“You DID NOT just fart on my head-”

“-You HIT me!”

“-You called him an ORPHAN, you insensitive motherfucker-””

“He IS an orphan! Hey, baby, don't-”

“We are SO never having sex ever again-”

“-HEY! MY HAIR!”

At some point in the fight, Erik shoved Alex of the chair and sank down into it, letting the cacaphony wash over him and unknot the tension in his spine. He smiled slightly as the smell of tuna helper leaked out of the kitchen. Why was he even friends with these people?

He ignored the voice that pointed out that it wasn't like people were lining up for the position.


	6. Chapter 6

There must be a trick to this.

He saw mothers do it all the time- the synchronised scoop wherein groceries could be deposited and a child clutched without breaking a sweat.

Perhaps it was an instinctive thing, but if so, it was one he lacked. Kurt squealed, the groceries fell to the floor, and Charles came down hard on his left leg, narrowly avoiding taking a header.

“Charrrrrrrrrrllllllllles!” Kurt shrieked. “Yaw cah buh, Charrrrrrrrrles!”

Charles had no idea what that meant.

“ _Moira!_ ” He called as he kicked off his boots. “Moira, where are you?”

“She stepped out, dearie,” A warm, motherly voice called from the upstairs apartment. The house was divided into three parts, all of which were accessible by a single staircase. “She starts class at 5:00 Tuesdays, remember?”

Shoot.

Charles gulped guiltily.

He had promised he'd be home earlier, and he had forgotten, and- well, Kurt hadn't been _alone_ , exactly, but it was hardly fair to expect Mrs Kinross to care for him, the woman was nearing seventy- and, well, there was food in the fridge, and he'd locked everything remotely sharp or corrosive in the cupboard over the fridge in a fit of insomnia-induced anxiety, and- still, Kurt was four, (and why the fuck had Raven named her child after that man, was what he wanted to know? His thoughts twisted at the images a handful of possible explanations thrown by his head like sucker punches) and he was pretty sure that leaving a four year old _alone_ , for all intents and purposes, was the kind of thing that got children taken away by CPS.

(Not that he would know. They had never bothered with him. Gleaming surfaces, expensive toys, and well-made clothing cover a multitude of sins.)

With effort, he extricated himself from Kurt's octopus like grip. He babbled happily.

Charles' mouth tensed with worry as he returned to the groceries.

He wasn't an expert; there were reasons he taught high school students and not kindergarteners (aside from the not insignificant pay increase) : he was rubbish with small children. But.. there was something off about Kurt.  
Charles has always been smarter than your average bear, and of necessity considerably more independent, but he was certain he hadn't been that young at that age. Kurt... well, Kurt could barely talk, and his motions were clumsy, uncoordinated.

He would have to scrape the money together to take him in to see... someone. Surely one of the people he went to teacher's college with would know a child psychologist, or something. (That is who he should be seeing, right?)

He sighed as he carefully stacked the items in the cupboards.

A bag of beans, tinned tomatoes, crackers, peanut butter and whole wheat pasta.

Good, sensible foods, that all the websites said were perfectly suitable for a child of Kurt's age. (But were they talking about normal children? Kurt was different, what if he choked? And he was small, and slight, though still larger than he had been at that age- and he hoped that Kurt's size didn't speak to his previous circumstances in the way his did. Which it didn't. He thinks. Malnutrition is _science_ , after all, and the ability of the hypothalmus and thyroid to produce growth hormone and thyroxine- that shouldn't be affected until puberty. Or was it even more important in babyhood?)

Milk, eggs, yogurt, chicken, potatoes and carrots- bland foods, without the garlic or spices that he personally favoured. They couldn't be good for a child's stomach, right?

He put the last of it away, and winced at the receipt in his hand.

It wasn't as though he was _starving_ \- granted, it was his first year of teaching, and the position was only part-time, (He told himself he didn't really mind, that it would give him more time to apply to grad school and to fill out his resume, and- now- to spend time with Kurt, but, like powdered milk, it was a comforting fiction.) and it rankled a little that after six years of schooling there were people working in coffee shops who's take home pay was higher than his- but things were tight. Especially now.

He should buy some things. Kids needed toys, right? The websites all said that children needed to be stimulated, that it was bad for their brain development otherwise, that they needed bright colours and soft fabrics and physical contact- children were _expensive_. The rickety child-sized cot, set up in what had been his and Moira's shared office, had cost him nearly sixty dollars secondhand. Mrs Kinross insisted on sending him home from every visit upstairs with bundles of books and so forth- but Moira was one of 6 girls, so she couldn't be much help on the clothing front, and Charles felt a little strange accepting help from an old woman on a fixed income.

The groceries unpacked, he turned to Kurt, forcing himself to resist the urge to bleach the countertops and the floor, to ignore the dust bunnies rolling under the cheerful red futon. That was a distraction mechanism, and he recognised it. (Contrary to popular opinion, if by popular opinion one meant 'Moira', Charles did in fact possess a measure of self-awareness.)

Instead, he knelt to the ground, biting off the curse that formed as he did so. The cool, wet day whispered through his bones, pulling at the fickle tendrils of memory that remained curled around his hip and shoulder, the echoes of fights long-ago and half-forgotten wounds.  
(Which, again, was a comforting lie. They were forgotten only in the harsh light of day, and he knew it.)  
He looked at Kurt.

Kurt looked back, his wide, amber eyes so like Raven's they made his chest ache.

Charles felt something stir inside him.

“How was your day, Kurt?” he enquired with a soft smile. “Did you and Moira have a good time?”

“Moi-wrah?”

“Yes, the young woman who was taking care of you? She's very nice, isn't she.”

“Moi-wrah nice!” He declared with a grin. “Saw a fire-tuck.”

“My goodness, did you really? A fire truck?”

“Yessss!” Kurt giggled, apparently shocked at Charles' lack of faith. “Wed!”

The knot that had been steadily growing in Charles since he had first laid eyes on the boy tightened.

There was something wrong here. No boy of four should talk like this.

“What else did you do?”

“Walk! Dogs an' boohs!”

Charles smiled and nodded.

Suddenly, without warning, Kurt flung himself against Charles' chest.

“Charles?” he asked. “Where Mama?”

Charles was torn between tears and a sigh of relief. He had hoped so desperately that it was the trauma of the sudden change that had meant that he had not asked after Raven yet, rather than an apathy on his part, or an expectation that his mother would not be there.

(After all, if a you leave a screaming child alone often enough, eventually it stops expecting someone to answer its cries.)

He hugged the boy uncertainly. (He was so fragile, so small- what if he broke him? What if he squeezed too hard and his bones simply shattered?)

Charles wasn't very good at hugging. He intended to get better, though, for Kurt's sake.

Perhaps he simply needed practise.

“Charles?” The boy was still waiting for an answer.

“It's just you and me now, I'm afraid, my dear,” he buried his face in Kurt's hair, breathed in the smell of clean child.

“Whey go?”

“Where did she go? I wish I knew, Kurt, I wish I knew.”

“I bad?” His smooth skin creased with worry. “Unka say Kurt bad. I stoopid. Make Mama go way. She angwy?”

Charles rubbed a hand across his face. Jesus. “No, Kurt, you weren't bad. How could a little boy like you be bad?”

(A ghost of another four year old boy watches the scene, one blue eye turned red by a fist and a burst capillary. He does not cry.)

“Raven- your Mama- I wish I knew what to tell you, Kurt. I wish I knew what happened myself. But I do know that- that your Mama loved you, because she loved everyone, and that she thought she was doing the right thing by giving you to me. It's not your fault. She was sick, Kurt. Sometimes people get sick.”

Kurt nodded gravely, his eyes shining with tears. “Dat why Mama took medcine? Had lotsa medcine. Unka too.”

Charles closed his eyes. _Raven, Raven, my beautiful girl. Why didn't you come with me? I could have saved you._

I needed you. _  
_

_Your **son** needs you, you selfish-_ He trailed off. Even in his mind, he could not bring himself to accuse Raven of anything, not when he did not know what had happened.

Just one of a thousand lessons learned too late to be of any use.

The house was cool, the November wind leaking through the closed windows like water throw a sieve. He would have to staple blankets up, or something.

He looked at the boy still clutching at his chest, face buried firmly in his armpit.

“Miss Mama,” the boy declared quietly.

“Me too, buddy,” he whispered. “Me too.”

They sat like that for a long time, the small patch of dampness spreading from his armpit to the front of his shirt, snot running freely down the threadbare cotton.

Finally, Kurt looked up.

“Stowy?” He suggested hopefully.

Charles envied his ability to change emotions so readily, with no apparent repercussions.

“I'm afraid I don't know any stories, my friend.”

“Stowy!”

“Alright,” Charles said. He bit his lip in thought, tearing at the chapped skin.

“Once upon a time, there was a beautiful princess, and she lived in the woods, where everything was green and she never had to do any chores. She had lost her parents when she was very young, and she had been on her own for a long time. It was a good life, but it was very lonely.

“Then, one day, she found a castle hidden in the woods. It was grand, and cold, and all of the animals warned her to stay away from it. So she did, until she heard a voice singing to itself in the middle of the night.

“She went to investigate, and saw a little boy much like her, wearing a crown and his pajamas. She thought he must have been very lonely, so she spoke to him. He told her that he was a prince, and very lonely, for an evil wizard had cast a spell on the queen and made her sleep, so she did not see it when he stole her crown.

“He became king, and forced the poor young prince out of his place, making his own apprentic eking instead. And so the prince was very sad, and very lonely, with noone to talk to.

“The princess was very happy to have met someone like her, and they rejoiced. They had a feast in the woods, and danced and drank ginger beer in celebration. Then they began to plan on how to get the kingdom back.

“They searched and searched for how to break the enchantment, until at last they found a beautiful girl sitting by a stream. She told them that she was not just a girl, but also a fairy, and that she knew how to break the spell.

The prince and the princess broke the enchantment, and the queen woke up. She was so horrified at what the magician and his apprentice had done, she had them turned to stone and sent them to France. She was overjoyed at what the young princess had done to help her and the prince, and as a reward adopted her into their family. Nobody ever had to be alone again, and they all lived happily ever after. The end.”

Charles' lip tilts in a wistful smile. He had told such stories to Raven for years; yet another thing from Before that he had lost to the fire he had set in his memories, the smoke dividing the now from the past, the important from the unimportant.  
“More?” Kurt said hopefully.

“You liked it, then?” Charles said.

Kurt tilted his head in thought, his mouth a serious line. “It wokay... Like pwincess!”

“But?”

Kurt frowned. “Where dwagos? I ly stowies with dwagos.”

Charles chuckled. “Perhaps next time there shall be a dragon.”

Kurt surprised him by giggling and clutching tighter at Charles, wrapping his faded blue cardigan around himself like a blanket.

The embrace was tight, close enough that Charles could feel Kurt's heartbeat in his own chest. It was oddly soothing.

They sat like that for a long time, pressed together on the floor, until Charles' bones ached.

Kurt fell asleep, his face buried in Charles' armpit. This was becoming a running theme.

Outside, the wind howled.


	7. Chapter 7

They were still sitting like that when Moira came home.

“Charles?” She called as she entered the house, shutting the door quickly against the now-driving snow.  


Charles jerked awake with a start. He had not realised he had fallen asleep.  


He quickly gestured for quiet. “Kurt's asleep,” he whispered.

“I see that,” said Moira, giving him a pointed look. “That wouldn't have anything to do with the fact that it's ten o'clock at night, right?”

Charles gaped. “Is it really that late? I didn't realise.”

Moira gave him a disapproving look. “Have you eaten?”

Charles rubbed the back of his neck guiltily, careful not to disturb the sleeping child cradled in his lap. He needn't have worried. Save for a nuclear explosion, there is very little that will wake a truly exhausted small child.

“That's a no, then?” Moira guessed. She sighed as she removed her coat and unwound her scarf, the kitchen filling with the smell of perfume and damp wool. “Did you at least feed Kurt?”

“He never said he was hungry,” Charles defended. “I would have gotten him something if he asked. Besides, there's food in the fridge, he saw me put it away.”

Moira's voice was uncharacteristically gentle, and the poorly disguised pity in her eyes burned. “Yeah, no, Charles, that's not the way it works. Kids need a schedule. Which means you feed them every day, at regular intervals, when they expect you to. Actually, that's a good rule for puppies and all human beings, too.”  
She eyes him. “I take it that means that you didn't eat either?”

Charles shrugs noncommittally.

“When did you last eat?”

“I had some coffee this afternoon,”Charles points out. “Truly, Moira, I wasn't hungry. Relax.”

She rolled her eyes, exasperated. “That doesn't count. You need to take better care of yourself, Charles. You're headed for an early grave, like this.”  


“You're not actually my mother,” Charles pointed out mildly.  


“I know, for some God known reason I give a shit about you. I'm going to go get changed- go put Kurt to bed, and then come out here and make some food. I'm starved.”

Ten minutes later, he was in front of the stove, clad only in a pair of ragged sweatpants, watching a pot of tortellini boil.

He shivered. He really needed to go clothes shopping. His 'teacher' clothes consisted of two pairs of pants, three long sleeved shirts, a jacket, a cardigan, and a handful of ties- all of which had seen better days, a fact that became more and more evident with every successive outing between washes- but it wasn't like he had much choice.  


He had collected all o them over the years as gifts or hand-me downs; there was something to be said for being the only one of his friends not to have grown since freshman year of university.  


The jacket, though, was old, and well-made, and Charles was never sure if the faint lingering smell of cigars that clung to it was real or imaginary. It didn't much matter.  
It has been a gift, from Raven.

 _Nobody had come to his graduation. Not that he expected them to. Cain had joined the army as soon as he was of age, ignoring the pleas from a crying Raven and Charles to take them with him. (He doesn't blame him; in retrospect, he wishes that he and Raven had not done so. It had been hard enough on Cain as it was, he was sure.)  
_

 _Charles was unsure if he was dead or alive. (Alive, he prayed to a god he did not believe in,_ alive _. Let this not be our legacy.)  
_

As for his mother- well. It wasn't her fault. Charles knows _she is dead, in spirit if not in body, and does not hate her because of it. He knows she loved him, once, but all people have a breaking point.  
_

 _(Charles still remembers the wide, musty king-sized bed in the basement where they had slept in the later parts of the first year of Marko's residency, she and he and Raven, curled tightly together in the illusion of safety. It had been their sanctuary, until_ he _had found it._

 _After that, Mother stopped coming downstairs before noon, and when she did she was not truly present. Charles had come to her instead, in her bright, airy room, brought food and books and anecdotes, fetched drinks and bottles of pills and pretended not to notice the flecks of blood on the bedspread. At night, he and Raven had locked themselves in his closet and pressed their hands to their ears, pretending not to hear her bitten off cries of pain and shame, interspersed as they were with Marko's grunts.  
_

 _They would bear witness to so many sins with their eyes wide open, but that would never be one of them. He would not allow it.)_

 _Charles had made his peace with-_ that _\- years ago. He did not need them. He was better without them. They were sick, had been broken from the start, and he_ could not help them _, not if he wished to stay sane._

 _(Moira would remind him of this, many times, over the years.  
_ ”Why do you let him talk to you that way?”

“You're not his servant.”

“You don't need him.”

“You shouldn't need someone else to be happy.”

“You're not his therapist.”

“Charles- maybe you shouldn't date for a while.”  
 __

 _She had showed up to his morning class the next day with a series of profoundly unhelpful pamphlets, and a heartfelt plea to “Talk to someone, for the love of **God** Charles, please.”_

 _Charles had stonewalled her, and she had backed off. It was to her credit that, two months later, when Charles showed up in her doorway nursing a cigarette and a broken heart, his tears disappearing in the driving April rain, she had merely nodded, and smiled, and given him a change of clothes and access to her facilities._

 _More importantly, he had introduced him to her mother.)_

 _Charles did not need them, so he was surprised, to say the least, when Raven showed up to his afterparty dressed in a denim skirt several sizes too small and an artfully shredded black tank top.  
_

 _She was thin, and wan, and her eyes were glazed, but her speech was clear._

 _This did nothing to appease his worry._

 _It was the first time he has seen her in four years._

 _(She must have had Kurt then, she must, only 17 and with a two year old child-_ Raven, my beautiful Raven, why didn't you tell me? _)_

 _He had run to her and hugged her, suppressing his shock at her appearance. A lot can change in four years._

 _They had left the bar, gone outside. She had not shivered in the cold night air, and declined Charles offered jacket._

 _She had lit a cigarette, and stared at him blearily. “Why didn't you take me with you?”  
_

 _Her voice had been plaintive, and lost- a little girl afraid of the night._

 _“I tried,” Charles smiled bleakly. “You wouldn't come.”_

 _“You should have made me. I was a_ kid _, I didn't fucking_ know _-”_

 _“Know what?” Charles had asked gently, unable to get over his joy at seeing her face._

 _She had closed her eyes, smiled a bitter smile that was incongruous on one so young. “How much you were protecting me.”_

 _He hadn't known what to say to that._

 _“Raven, please- stay with me. It's not too late, we can still-”_

 _She had laughed bitterly. “Always the optimist, eh, Charles? Even in the face of cruelty. You always were the strong one.”_

 _“Please, Raven, I can-”_

 _“-Save me?” she had smiled. “Can't save someone who doesn't want to be saved, Charlie-boy. That's what you never figured out.” She had paused, and her eyes had seemed to clear. “I'm so proud of you for that. Me and Cain both.”_

 _“Raven, how did this-”_ How did this happen to you? You were supposed to be better- safer- sweeter. Why else did I protect you? __

 _ _Raven had smirked, but her eyes were dead. “Why? Like what you see? Do you think I'm_ beautiful _, Charles?”__

 _  
_Charles had felt as though he had been punched in the gut.  
_   
_

_“I've always thought you beautiful, Raven. Please, love, stay with me. We can help each other.”  
_

 _He had been too proud to admit that he needed her. He wonders, later, if that would have saved her._

 _Raven had shaken her head. “There's only room for one of us to burn brightly, Charles. One of us had to make that sacrifice. You did it for so many years- it's my turn now.”_

 _She had shoved a package in his hands and kissed him on the cheek._

 _“Congratulations, Charles. Brian would have been proud.”_

 _And with that, she had walked away. Charles had watched her loose, rolling stride, resisting the urge to cry, as she disappeared into the night._

“Charles?”  


Charles jumped.  


Moira held up her hands. “Sorry, sorry, you were a million miles away. The pasta was going to boil over.”  


Charles forced a smile.

Ten minutes later, they were huddled beneath a quilt on their futon, eating tortellini and watching _The Naked Chef_.  


“Has it ever occurred to you that this is the closest thing to a sex life either of us have?” Moira looked at him.  


Charles raised an eyebrow. “And by 'this', you mean you and I, boxed wine and pasta, or...”  


She swatted him. “I meant the food porn, actually.”  


Charles sputtered. “It- it's not _porn_ , Moira, it's educational! Honestly, the things you-”  


At that point, he was interrupted by a particularly breathy moan from Jamie Oliver as he swallowed a spoonful of gravy.

“Yeah, okay, maybe it's porn.” A though occurred to him. “That's not really fair, either. I _had_ a sex life until _someone_ said I wasn't allowed to bring people round anymore.”

“There was an orgy in our living room, Charles. An orgy to which neither of us was apparently invited.”

“That was not my fault!”

“A real relationship wouldn't kill you, you know.”

“That's supremely unfair- you ou never like my boyfriends. You always scare them off.”

“That's because your boyfriends suck.”

Charles sighed, settling into the familiar argument like a well-worn sweater. “I don't actually need your protection, Moira.”

Moira smirked. “Yeah, you do, kiddo.”

Charles rolled his eyes. “I'm five years younger than you, Moira, not fifty.”

They had been, respectively, the oldest and the youngest people in their freshman biology class at Columbia.  


Moira grinned and wrapped an arm around him. “I'm still older than you.”  


“Yes, and I've been more grown up than you since the day we met.”

Moira raised an eyebrow. “Actually, Charles, as I recall the day we _met_ you threw up on my shoes.”

“I was _sixteen_!”

“Not actually helping your case, here, Xavier.”

She drank deeply from her cup of wine, staining her lips a dark cherry against her pale skin. She looked at him carefully.

“So how did it go today?”

Charles avoided her gaze. “Good. Fine. It was- fine.”

“When is the next meeting?”

Charles avoided her gaze.

“Charles. You said you'd give it a fair shot.”

“I did! I went once, didn't I?”

“Did you even say anything?”

“Yes! I- Moira, you weren't there. People were crying. In public.” He shuddered.

She smacked him.

“Ow!”

“Serves you right, you brat.” Moira stuck her tongue out at him.

“Sorry, were you momentarily stricken deaf? Did you miss the part where they were _crying_?”

Moira did not smile. “Charles. Listen to me. You're fucked up. You _know_ that. And it's not your fault, and you can't change it, but it happened. You're fucked up, and you don't get to fuck up another kid, okay? That's not happening.”

Charles sighed.

“You _know_ I'm right.”

Charles nodded slowly.

“Good. Now, hush, Jamie's back on.”


	8. Chapter 8

Charles misses the bus the next morning.

He doesn’t mind too much. He makes a point of arriving early to work anyway, and he has a good half hour before he actually needs to leave. He still isn’t used to accounting for a child in his daily plans.

Normally, it takes Charles less than fifteen minutes to get ready. A shower, clean clothes, and a cup of coffee is all it really takes- he could do (and has done ) it with his eyes closed.

Now, though, there is breakfast to be made- and yeah, okay, so a bowl of cheerios with sliced banana isn’t exactly gourmet cuisine, but it seems to take Kurt _ages_ to eat it- and there is hair to be brushed, buttons to do up and laces to tie.

It’s… strange. Good, perhaps, but strange none the less. He’s not _bad_ at it, per se; Lord knows he had enough practice with Raven, but it’s… well, it’s the mental adjustment more than anything.

He tries saying it to himself in the mirror sometimes.

 _I, Charles Xavier, have a child._

 _I, Charles Xavier, am a- a father._

 _I, Charles Xavier, am not going to fuck this up._

Maybe he’s focusing on the wrong things. All parents fuck up their children to some extent, right? Maybe he should focus on the least harmful way to do so- instilling an intense work ethic, or something. Then he looks down at Kurt, who is happily gabbling away in a nonsense language to being Charles cannot see, and his heart sinks.

Maybe he should be concentrating on just getting the two of them through this.

He makes a mental note to talk to Kitty. After all, she ran the school’s daycare centre- surely she would know where they could go for an evaluation.

(And yes, he _does_ feel slightly awkward taking his child to the centre that is probably intended for the offspring of teenage girls, but, well. He’s hardly going to pass up free childcare, now is he?)

The morning air is crisp, and clean; the few inches of snow temporarily covering the grime of the city in a pristine sheet of cleanliness.

Steam rises off his coffee cup, turning his pale skin red.

For a moment, everything is pure, and soft, and simple.

A father and his son, waiting for a bus.

It doesn’t last, of course. The bus arrives, spraying them both with grey-brown slush, and the spell is broken. The illusion fades, replacing it instead with a city of dust and dirt and grime, with sticky seating on a broken-down bus, with a damaged young boy and an exhausted young man out of his league.

For a moment, though, there is peace.

When he arrives at his classroom, it is already open. This is a surprise, to say the least. He shares this room with two other part-timers, in a wing that is a broken down relic of the seventies where the administration tends to shove all of the lower-level science courses.

(The principal, a man with an eyepatch- seriously, who wears an _eyepatch_? and the bearing of a soldier, had been brutally honest.

“Look, kid,” Principal Fury had said, chewing on an unlit cigar. “We’re not expecting miracles here. Most of those kids aren’t going to college. Hell, some of them ain’t gonna finish high school. It’s 9th grade general physics and biology- you’re gonna get some real assholes. You have to be firm with them, or they’ll eat you alive- but don’t expect Einsteins, alright?”

Charles had nodded. He had thought he understood. Moira’s mother was a teacher, and had made a point of thoroughly disabusing him of any romantic notions he may have held about his trade.)

“Hello?” He calls out curiously as he enters the room, breathing in the vaguely comforting odour of ink and sweat and a clearly malfunctioning fume hood. (Someone was going to have to look at that, sooner rather than later. It could be dangerous.   
Well, it _could_ be dangerous, if they ever used it in this class. Charles is still adjusting to the idea that _potassium_ is considered too expensive to allow the children to do experiments with.)

“Sir!” Charles looks in the direction of the noise, and raises his eyebrows at the sight of a thin, pale boy near the front of his desk, his baggy sweatshirt dripping water onto the floor.

“McCoy?” _Please let that be the right name._ \

“Yes, sir, um, sorry, sir, I was just- um, Mr. Stark said it was okay, sir, so I just thought- I can leave now, um, sorry to bother you.”

Charles was puzzled. “Why are you in my classroom? School doesn't start for another-” he glances at his watch- “Another hour and a half.”

The boy shook his head distractedly. “Uh, right, sir, but Mr Stark said that you had the latest issue of _The Biophysical Journal_ , and I was hoping I could borrow it for a while?”

“Sure?” Charles responded, wincing as he heard it come out as a question. “Just take good care of it.”  
“I will, sir.”   
The boy left, leaving a trail of water droplets in his wake. Charles scratched his chin. That had been... bizarre.

He shrugged and gripped his mug of coffee tightly. He had work to do.   
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Charles glanced up at the sky. It was dark, and ominous; the clouds heavy with snow.

He shifted slightly, readjusting Kurt's weight, when he saw the park.

He glanced at his watch. It was only 1 PM, and, yeah, he was definitely going to have to find another job for the afternoons, because two sections of high school science does not an income make.

There was snow on the ground, and in the dark afternoon the park was nearly empty. Still, wasn't this the sort of thing that fathers were supposed to do with their sons?

He glanced at the boy in his arms, who was smiling and occasionally murmuring things to himself.

At least he was happy. Nothing else mattered, right?

“Hey, Kurt,” he said, in an attempt at cheerful jocularity. “Wanna go to the park?”

Kurt looked at him curiously. Charles wonders how much of that he understood. He has a business card for a Ms Ororo Munroe, an appointment he will have to make sooner rather than later. He wonders, belatedly, whether insurance covers this sort of thing.

“Play?” Kurt says, as though unsure if this was a trick.

“Yeah, buddy. Wanna go play?”

“Okay!” Kurt squeals, and practically leaps from Charles' arms, who has to race to catch up.

They run through the snow drifts, and Charles manfully restrains from _freaking the fuck out_ when the boy trips on an exposed tree root and lands, face first, in the snow.

It helps that he pops up instantly, red-faced and grinning, and shouts “Charrrles! Chase!”

Charles sees no choice but to comply.

Somewhere along the line, his rucksack is abandoned by a tree- within eyesight, of course, Charles isn't a complete idiot- and they are both laughing.

Kurt gets a devilish look on his face and reaches into the snow, his fingers red from the cold, and flings a handful at Charles.

“Can't catch me!” he shouts, and dissolves into giggles.

Charles lets out a rather undignified squeal, and ponders the ethics of flinging snow back at a small child, and perhaps he isn't watching where he is going _quite_ as much as he should be, because he runs smack into a tall, broad man in a leather jacket, landing flat on his back in the snow.

For a moment, he just lies there, dazed, feeling the scratch of ice on the exposed skin of his lower back as the snow seeps through his worn wool coat and long-sleeved shirt.

He stares at the sky, and catches his breath. It is quite peaceful, really.

Kurt's head pops into view, his black hair sticking up messily. He is panting, and his cheeks are cherry red, but his face is marred with worry.

“Up, Charles!” he orders sternly. “Okay?”

Charles smiles. “I'm just fine, Kurt, just let me catch my breath, okay?”

“UP!” he repeats, and there's a hint of worry in his childish tone.

Another face appears in his field of view. It is rough, and sharp, and ruggedly handsome, and although a woolen scarf and hooded jacket hides much of it from view, Charles can't help but find it familiar-  
“ _Erik?_ ”

The man laughs, and pulls down the scarf to expose his mouth.

“And just what are you doing out on a day like today, Charles?” he asks, a smile playing baout his mouth. “Shouldn't you be in school?”

Charles attempts his firmest teacher glare. It is stunningly ineffective.

“I could ask the same to you,” he points out.

“I work the night shift,” Erik responds easily. “While you-”

“Charles! **UP!** ” Kurt interrupts.

Erik grins. “Well, you heard the man. Would you like a hand with that?”

Charles tries to grumble, but fails miserably. He is sure he flushes darkly pink with embarassment.

Erik doesn't seem to mind. If anything, his grin broadens, his teeth gleaming in the dim light.

A few minutes later, they are both situated on a bench, watching as Kurt rolls around in the snow.

Charles flushes with guilt. He really should be wearing mittens.

“So, Charles,” Erik says. “What brings you here?”

Charles raises an eyebrow. “It's a park. I have a kid. Seems like a rather logical mix, wouldn't you say?”

“It's winter, during the school day, and your kid isn't wearing any mittens.”

Charles rubs his face with the palm of his hand. “It's not that cold, I only work mornings so that the bastards in administration don't have to pay me full benefits, and I'm rather terrible at this parenting thing, in case you haven't noticed.”

Erik smiles, but his eyes turn serious. “He clearly likes you- you must be doing something right.”

Charles begins to open his mouth to argue, but lets the matter drop.

“Besides,” Erik adds, “You can't keep doubting yourself, not if you expect others to listen to you. You're a teacher and a parent- the least you could do is respect yourself.”

Charles looks at him wryly. “Hmm, _someone's_ in therapy.”

Erik shrugs sheepishly. “Not my idea.”

“So you said,” Charles says, and there it is- the awkwardness he had been expecting as they were both reminded of their last meeting.

“Yeah, listen,” Erik begins.

“Erik, I'm,” Charles says.

They laugh, and both stop.

“Go ahead,” Erik says.

“I'm so sorry about yesterday- truly, it wasn't anything you _did_ , an dI don't normally react that way- I've just been a little, uh, overwhelmed recently. I suspect it's put me a bit off my game, so to speak.”

Erik smiles sadly and shakes his head. “Charles- don't apologise." He takes a deep breath, and the smile fades away. "You should stay away from me. I, I'm not a good person. I- I'm not good for much, really, except- well, that doesn't matter. I lived my life for revenge for so many years...” He stops. “Whatever, it doesn't matter. I just- look, I'm an asshole, okay? You probably shouldn't hang around me. Not when you have a kid?”

Charles looks at him, before reaching up a reddened hand to wipe a snowflake of Erik's cheekbone.

“Oh, Erik...” He says softly. “My friend.. There is so much more to you than that. There is goodness in you, Erik. I can see it.”

There is a snowflake on his lip.

Erik kisses him.


	9. Chapter 9

Charles gasps, but does not pull away.

This is a bad idea. He knows that, but- it's been so long since someone had _touched_ him, and for a moment, just a moment, he allows himself to breathe in the comforting, smokey smell of leather and motor oil, allows Erik to reach his broad arms around him and hold tight.

For a moment, the world stops.

For a moment, nothing can harm him.

But the moment is over and Erik is breaking the kiss, his hands leaving Charles' neck. Charles makes a small noise of protest.

He feels high, dizzy from pheromones and human contact.

“Charles,” Erik whispers, voice hoarse. “This is a bad idea. You know it is.”

“You kissed me,” Charles points out.

Erik lets out a surprised laugh. “Yes, I suppose I did, didn't I?”

“You want this.” It wasn't a question.

Erik winces. “Yes... _God_ yes. But we can't. I'm... I'm no good for you.”

Charles wrinkled his brow. “Why do you get to decide what's good for me? I'm not a child, Erik. Look, I have the ID and everything.” He reaches towards his pocket, but is stopped by Erik.

“You don't even know me.” In the background, a voice whispers, _He's right, Xavier- look at you, still willing to spread your legs for the first person to show you kindness. You should be ashamed of yourself._

Charles ignores it. “But I want to?”

He winces as hears it come out as a question.

Erik looks at him, eyes wary. For a long moment, he is silent.

“All right,” he says finally. Then he grins. “I think I owe you a drink, anyway.”

“I don't think you do.” Charles points out with a laugh.

“No, I'm pretty sure I _intended_ to buy you a drink, but was interrupted. We should fix that.”

“Why, Erik,” Charles says with a soft laugh. “If I didn't know better, I would say you were trying to seduce me.”

“In front of your son? Kinky.”

“He's not actually...”

“Yeah, he is.” Erik stands up. “I've seen the way you look at him. You love him. He's your son.”

“I think perhaps you are confused as to the meaning of the word, my friend. My ward, perhaps.”

“No, I'm not.” He grins. “Now, about that drink...”

“Erik. It's one in the afternoon.” A thought occurs to him. “You said you work the night shift- when did you get off?”

“8 this morning,” he supplies, apparently at ease with the sudden shift in conversation.

“Do you not _sleep_?”

“Sleep is for the weak.”

Charles suprises himself by laughing. “Ah, good to see that 21st century male machismo is alive and well, then.”

“How about coffee?”

“Hmm?”

“Instead of the drink. Since you have some kind of prejudice against drinking liquor in the afternoon.”

“My friend, everyone over the age of _16_ has a prejudice against drinking liquor in the afternoon. It's trashy.”

“Oh, good, you _are_ of age then? You have no idea how relieved I am.”

Charles smacks his arm lightly. “Yes to the coffee, then. Kurt should get out of the cold, anyway.”

“Yeah...” Erik trails off. “He really needs some mittens, you know.”

Charles buries his face in his hands. “I _know_. Come on, there's a good café a few blocks east of here.”  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
“So what did you study?”

“Mm?” Charles looks up from where he had been fussing with Kurt's sweater. He has evidently taken the mere _existence_ of icing as a physical challenge on his person, and is conducting an experiment into just how far a couple tablespoons be spread over one small boy.

Erik is watching him with amusement.

“You're a teacher, right? I asked what you studied.”

“Oh,” Charles straightens. “Biophysics, actually. At Columbia. And yourself?”

Erik fixed him with a wry look. “Right, Charles, I just clean schools at night for fun- I'm actually an engineer.”

Charles flushed. “Sorry, I- Nevermind. Please accept my apologies.”

Erik waves a hand. “It doesn't matter. School and I never got along too well. I was a smart enough kid, just...” he shrugs. “Anyway. What do you do with a biophysics degree?”

“In my case? Teach angry freshmen about the difference between a eukaryote and a prokaryote. Sometimes we draw food webs, as well, so that's exciting.”

Erik raised his eyebrows. “So why did you go into teaching, then?”

Charles sighed. “I'm embarrassed to admit I had some rather romanticised notions of the field, but... That wasn't all of it. I mean, it's important, I still think it's _important_ , but the state of science education in this country is horrifying. We're failing our good students and abandoning those who need more help- it's frustrating, that's all.”

Erik nodded, and inspected his coffee cup. “How would you change it, then?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You know. If you were the supreme ruler of schools-”

“-I expect you mean Director of Education, Erik-”

“-How would you change it, to make it teachable?”

“Well, first off, I think it's absurd to have freshmen taking biology and chemistry and physics separately from each other. Why not just teach _science_ at the lower level, and- and show how _beautiful_ it can be? Teach them about- about the stars, about the sea, about the- the millions of tiny miracles that keep us all alive and breathing? Noone enjoys classifying organisms. Why not- the universe is quite a beautiful place, my friend. Chaotic, yes, and ruthless, but beautiful. And they can't _see_ that. Not with the way we're teaching them.”

Charles took a deep breath, flushing a deep red when he catches Erik smirking at him, a twinkle in his eye.  
“Sorry. Uh, I got rather ahead of myself, I think. Sorry about that, Erik. “ He forced a laugh. “Moira calls that my, er, my science evangelist speech.”

“Well, I can think of worse things to evangelise for.”

“That's what I said!”

Erik laughs. He reaches over to smooth a hair out of Charles' eyes.

“Charrles!” Kurt squawks. He sounds angry, although Charles can't imagine why.  
“Yes, Kurt?”  
Kurt lets out an angry, high-pitched squeal. “Want! Yaw-kuhb, nooooooo!”

“What?”

Kurt continued to screech.  
Charles felt his heartbeat triple in speed. “Kurt, buddy, what's wrong? Can you tell me what's wrong?”

Kurt responded by flinging over his cup of hot chocolate, soaking through Charles' jacket and into his white shirt.

“Kurt! What is it?”

He continued to squeal, which was rapidly turning into a scream.

Charles felt numb. Something was wrong. Shit, shit, shit. What should he do? What would _normal_ people do?

“Charles!” Someone was touching him, gripping his shoulder tightly, and he instinctively stepped away, waiting for the grip to turn crushing.

“Hm?” His eyes had not left Kurt, who was slowly turning red with anxiety.

“Take. Him. Out. Side. I'll clean up.”

The spell was broken, and he could move again. He looked at Erik, who looked nearly as frantic as he felt. “Go!”

Charles did as he was told, and carried the kicking and screaming boy out into the cold day, his tiny fists beating a tattoo against Charles' shoulder.

“Kurt. Kurt. Tell me what's wrong.”

There was no reply. Charles was starting to wonder if Kurt even understood him.

He continued to scream.

“Shut UP! For Christ's sakes, child, shut the fuck up!”

If anything, that only made him cry harder. Charles flushed with guilt, and resisted the urge to shake the boy. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“Sorry. Buddy, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell. But you _need to tell me what's wrong._ ”

By the time Erik came out of the coffee shop, Charles felt close to tears as well.

He exhaled softly. “A raincheck, my friend? I think perhaps we had best go home.”

Erik nods, looking uncomfortable.

“See you Tuesday, then.”

“Yeah,” Charles echoed hollowly. “See you Tuesday.”


	10. Chapter 10

The girl speaking now had an eye patch.

How is this his life? Surely no-one who is not a _pirate_ should be wearing an eyepatch in this day and age.

Also, what does it say about Charles that his social circle includes not one, but _two_ eyepatches?

He glanced over his shoulder to the corner where Kurt sat at a table, colouring and determinedly mashing a sugar cookie across his face.

Oh god, he was that guy, wasn't he? That guy who brings his kid to his AA meetings?

Not that this was AA, but, still, Charles did not want to be that guy. That guy was sad.

On the other hand, Kurt had an appointment with a Dr Ororo Munroe in less than 2 hours time, and, between that and winter clothes (Charles had finally managed to obtain some mittens and a parka. He was rather unreasonably proud of that.) he didn't exactly have the money for a _babysitter_ , now did he?

He sighed. It- he knew that it was wrong, that he shouldn't be feeling like this but there are days, bad ones, where he just wants to scream, where he curses Raven and Sharon and Cain for leaving him, because it was all well and good for them, wasn't it? They were _dead_ , or off fighting in some god-forsaken hell-hole, they _escaped_ , and it wasn't right, it wasn't _fair_ , because Charles has always been left to clean up their messes.

He's always been the strong one, and he knows that that was what Raven was counting on when she left Kurt to him- but what they never realised, what they never quite _understood_ , was that he didn't break because he wouldn't _let himself_ , and even though it meant that- something- broke, that maybe he would never be quite normal, assuming what he did wasn't- which, hell, he has a fondness for layers, doors that lock and knowing that he is prepared in the event of an emergency with food and medical supplies, that's hardly a fucking _neurosis_ \- it meant that he was _alive_ , and they were _dead_ , and some days- bad ones, when Kurt is screaming and he won't stop, when any deviation from their regular routine throws him into hysterics, when Charles looks at this beautiful broken boy and sees a shadow of a child who _cannot understand what he is doing wrong_ , that he wonders if maybe they weren't the lucky ones after all.

They got out. He only thought he had.

He tunes back into the conversation and hopes nobody notices the slight tremor in his right hand.

“...I miss her, y'know?” The girl is saying, and she pulls her shirtsleeves tight around her hands, “Like, she- I _know_ it ain't right, what she did, but it wasn't her fault, y'know? She didn't ask for none of this. She didn't ask to be hurt anymore than we did. She didn't ask to get sick. And- she was my ma, and I loved her, because it wasn't always bad. Sometimes it was almost like she was normal, and then sometimes she'd be screaming in face and forget who the fuck she was talking to and go at me with a fucking bottle. It- it was like living with fucking Jekyll and Hyde, you never knew what you were gonna get, what you'd do this time to deserve it. It.. I don't know. I think about her, sometimes, I guess. Wonder if she's ok. I- I love her. I tried to be a good daughter...`she trailed off. “It's her birthday.” She says quietly.

The woman next to her smiles softly. Martin clears his throat. “Thank you for sharing, Callisto. Does anyone else have anything to add?”

“I-it wa-wa-wasn't your f-fault,” A small, nebbishy man says- boy, really, he can't be more than 19-, “Y-y-you c-can't help l-loving h-her. She-she's your mom.”

The girl snorted.

Charles bit his lip, and before he could stop himself, the words came out. “How do you know?”

“S-s-sorry?”

“You weren't there. How could you _possibly_ know that?”

The boy shrugs. “C-cause n-nobody does.” he says simply.

The tremors in his fingertips move into his hand. “That- don't be absurd. It- there's a _line_ , yes, of course there is, but all parents discipline their children! It's what makes them good parents.” _It's normal_ , he almost says, but even his mental voice is tinged with a desperate, pleading hysteria, and so he holds that part to himself.

The boy glances over Charles shoulder towards Kurt. “D-d-discipline, not b-b-eat. You get that there's a d-d-difference, r-right, man?”

“You saying I deserved it, then?” The girls snaps.

“What? No, God, no, of course you didn't-”

“-Then what the fuck are you trying to say?”

“I don't know!” Charles shouts. Several people flinch. He pretends not to notice. “ I don't know, okay? I- I'm sorry.” He looks down at the floor. “Sorry. I've got a big mouth- I should stop talking.”

Martin shakes his head. “No, keep going, Charles, please. Tell us what's on your mind.”

“It would be helpful if I had any idea what that _was_ ,” he muttered, half to himself. Then he looks up. “Look- I'm sorry. I'm not actually as crazy as I seem, I promise you, it's just- things have been hard, recently, and they' ve brought up a lot of, er, issues, that I thought I had dealt with. Evidently, not so much.” He attempts a smile.

For a long moment, everything is silent.

“I'm scared, you know?” He says finally. “There's- you've all met Kurt, obviously- I- I'm scared. For him, for me, it's the same thing, I guess- but just- I look at him, and I see- I don't know what I see. But he needs help. And, and I want to believe that he's fine, or that there's something genetic going on, but, I mean- I'm a teacher. I went to school for this stuff- some of it, anyway. I know what brain damage looks like. And, and I want to believe that, that it's genetic, but I know- well, I know what it probably is. And that scares the hell out of me, because Raven was _safe_ , more than I was, anyway- I _protected_ her, because that's what you do, isn't it, when you're an older sibling? You protect them. And if- if Raven was messed up enough to fuck up like that, who's to say I won't be the same?”

His hand is shaking in earnest. “I want him to be safe. That's all I've wanted. That's always been my job. To keep people _safe_. But what if I'm the danger? The other day, he screamed for 4 hours straight, until he fell asleep, and I just barely stopped myself from shaking the little bugger by the neck- what if next time I can't? What if one day it's not enough? What if- what if I break him?”

Martin smiles. “You're not like your parents.” This he says with confidence of one who has repeated the same phrase many times over the years, in front of the mirror and in public, until he has struck just the right balance of confidence and compassion.

Charles chews on his lip. “How do you know?”

It's not Martin who answers, but a beautiful red-headed woman with kind, sad green eyes. “Because you're here,” she says quietly, “You _know_ that that would be wrong.”

Erik snorts. Everyone jumps. It is the first time he has spoken. He does not even introduce himself, and has a habit of drawing a velociraptor on his nametag.  
“You don't think they knew it was wrong? What world are you living in? Do you honestly believe that people don't know it's _wrong_ to, to belt a child, or to break their ribs, or to give them injections- do you _really_ believe that?”

“I believe that they're sick,” she says softly. “I think that they needed help, somewhere along the line, and they didn't get it. That's all.”

Erik grins. “You don't think some people are just _evil_? That they get off on hurting those who are weaker than them?”

It is Charles who jumps to her defence. “Well, yes, Erik, but that's psychopathy, surely. That's entirely different-”

“-How? If someone pushes someone down a flight of stairs, a _child_ , I mean, and they get hurt, does it really matter if the adult is in the middle of a bipolar episode, or are just drunk, or just _evil_ \- the bones are still broken. The kid's still gonna have fucking nightmares.”

Charles has gone pale. “So what exactly are you saying, Erik?”

Erik runs back over the rest of the conversation in his head, and winces. Oh, fuck.

“I didn't mean- not like _that_ , Charles.”

Charles nods once, tightly. “I should go.” He stands up, wincing slightly at the movement. “Kurt has a medical appointment.”

There are a chorus of goodbyes and well-wishes. There is something to be said for having a -for now- fairly charming young boy as your ward.

Erik watched them go, and he winces. He shouldn't have said anything. He shouldn't have come here.

He should have found somewhere else to go, somewhere where Charles wasn't, where he couldn't- he can't explain it, but somehow, the man still seems pure, untainted by the world around him, an air of sanctified grace that seems to exude out of his pores.

Charles looks over his shoulder as they leave, and smiles goodbye to Erik.

That is when Erik realises he is not a good enough person to stay away.

So he does the next best thing, and when Martin next asks for a member of the group to volunteer, Erik raises a hand, and makes his voice as neutral as possible, and speaks.

“Hi, I'm Erik.”

It's not much, but it's a start.


	11. Chapter 11

The Queens Centre for Children's Neuropsychology was almost oppressively bright.  
The building itself was dingy enough, the ugly grey brick tempered by half an inch of soot and dust that blended perfectly with the dull brown-grey slush that coated the ground.  
The inside, however, had clearly been decorated with children in mind: primary colours abounded, and the waiting room was well-stocked with toys and books.  
It did nothing to ease the knot that was forming in Charles stomach. 

Charles has a healthy respect for authority. He believes in it, believes that people are generally good, that rules exist for a reason, and that the mere fact that someone is a cop or a teacher or a judge or a doctor does not automatically make them untrustworthy. 

But it doesn't make them trustworthy, either, and Charles spent a long, confused time believing that they were the enemy. 

_  
“Shh. Shut up, Charles, ok? Sh. I'm trying to help you, you little freak- shhh. Dad's gone to bed. Stay still, goddamnit!”  
Charles groaned quietly. He was shaking, and he tried to push himself up, only to hiss at the agonising pain as raw, bruised flesh pulled tight across his back. _

_“Shut up, kid. Let's get you cleaned up.”_

_Charles curled in on himself._

_I'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorry_

_“Don't be sorry. Just don't do it again. Now, c'mon. Stand up.”_

_He does so, and stumbles. There is a divot in his back where the belt buckle had torn into soft young flesh, and it is weeping freely._

_Cain helps him up, and dabs his wounds with iodine, his broad, callused hands surprisingly gentle.  
Charles is confused- this is _ Cain _, Cain who is bigger and stronger and angry, Cain who alternates between hating him and ignoring his existence entirely- why is he being so nice?_

_He doesn't voice the question._

_In truth, perhaps he is scared that in doing so, the spell will be broken, and the possibility of this gentle young man will again be hidden beneath the smell of cigarettes and black eyes and resentment._

_When he is done, he turns the boy around to look him in the eye._

_He is eight years old, and small for his age, and the thirteen year old Cain has to kneel to look him in the eye._

_“You can't tell anyone, Charles, do you understand?”  
The boy's brown eyes were serious, and he held his gaze until Charles nodded.  
_  
The school counsellor had been only too happy to believe Charles.  
He was 12 by then, and in retrospect it should make him angry, to think that it took four years for someone- anyone- to look at the boy in the corner, the silent, thin boy who always wore long sleeves and who shrugged away any attempts at conversation or physical contact and whose movements were sharp, his expression strained, in the presence of those who were larger than him, and ask the question that someone should have been asking all along. 

_Charles? Is everything all right at home?_

Mr. Arthur's honest, ruddy face had been soft and compassionate, his booming voice lowered to a calming whisper, and Charles had looked him in his kind blue eyes and nodded. 

He cannot help but think that if he were a different sort of boy, if he had not been an Xavier, if his schoolwork had been less perfect or his clothes less impeccable, they would have noticed.  
(Maybe they wouldn't have. The rational part of his brain knows that people slip through the cracks sometimes.  
 _Still_ , his subconscious will argue, _How could they not have known?_ )

_  
It is summer, and Raven lies on his bed beside him, their long, thin limbs tangled up in a sweaty embrace._

_Charles is reading aloud._

_“Make your choice, adventurous Stranger;  
Strike the bell and bide the danger,  
Or wonder, till it drives you mad,  
What would have followed if you had”_

_Raven shivers slightly, and presses closer to him, the smell of her nail polish astringent in the hot room._

_Charles absentmindedly strokes her hair as he reads._

_His strong, quiet voice is almost enough to cover up the sounds of glass breaking in the dining room.  
_

“Kurt Wagner?”  
A pretty, dark-haired woman sticks her head around the corner. She smiles. 

“Ah, there you are. And you're Charles Xavier, yes? I'm Lil, we spoke on the phone. Come on back,” 

Kurt clings tight to Charles' leg as they follow the woman down the hallway. 

“So, we'll start with an exam- I'm going to pass you over to one of our residents, Dr Ironside, she'll take good care of you, and then, once Dr Munroe has had a chance to look over the file, she'll be coming in and doing some developmental testing, ok? Do you have any questions?”

Charles shook his head. “No, thank you.”  
_________________  
Dr Munroe had a kind smile and tired eyes as she explained her suspicions.  
“[ The most common form of developmental delay...](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/fetal_alcohol_syndrome)

“Difficulty with social cues, language, money, abstract concepts..

“Routine activities...”  
Charles' head was buzzing. He barely heard her. 

He had been expecting it, to some degree. 

He'd known Raven was on drugs, that she drank more than she should, but, well- so did he, at that age. He had been frightened, and alone, and trying desperately to muddle through the pain and the terror as best he could. 

It- God, she probably hadn't even realised that she was pregnant until it was too late. 

Charles has to believe that. Has to believe that, had she known, she would have stopped. 

Has to believe that she wasn't so irreparably broken by his departure as to keep living the way she had been while carrying a child. 

So she hadn't known, she musn't have, but where does that leave Kurt? 

( _Intentions don't matter,_ Erik says in his head. But they do, they must, because otherwise where does that leave him?)

_It's not his mother's fault._

_She's sick._

_Charles knows this, has always known it, knows that there is a reason she takes so many pills, that there is a reason that sometimes she closes her drapes and locks her door and does not come out for days, leaves him at the mercy of Kurt and Cain and struggling to find something to cook for dinner, and sometimes she is affectionate, clutching him tightly, singing songs and making grand pans for trips, just the two of them, that even at nine Charles knows they will never take._

_There is a reason that sometimes she screams, and shouts, and slaps him for things he did not do._

_There is a reason._

_There is always a reason.  
_  
“-Mr Xavier?”

Charles shakes his head, dispelling the memory. “Sorry. So, I'm not quite- what do we do now?”

He feels lost, like he's drowning, and he wants to run, to leave, to forget everything that has happened in the last month- but he can't. 

(Charles has been running all his life. He's not sure he knows how to stop.) 

“We're going to help you,” Dr. Munroe says. “We can set you up with a social worker, a speech therapist- we're going to try and make this as easy as possible.”

Charles is shaking his head even before she finishes speaking. “We can't- I'm only covered for three visits a year.”

Dr Munroe purses her lips. “I understand that this can get expensive, but surely-”

“-Do you have some kind of sliding scale?” he asks hopefully. 

She regards him silently for a moment, then nods, the pity clear in her eyes. “Mr Xavier, if you don't mind me asking- what were the circumstances of your guardianship of Kurt?”

Charles blinks. She smiles encouragingly, and he feels painfully young. 

“My sister- she- Kurt's my nephew. My sister died.”

“My condolences,” she says, and actually seems to mean it. 

Charles nods his thanks. 

She looks at him again, and Charles twitches. 

“Mr Xavier, if I may- parenthood is a very stressful event for anyone. How are you coping?”

Charles gives a choked laugh. “I'm fine. It's not like there's much choice in the matter.”

She nods. “Have you considered talking to someone?”

He looks at her, the lines of his limbs drawing sharp and precisely. 

She writes something on a pad of paper. “Here- this is the number for Dr. Adler, over at CEAC. She operates on a sliding scale- I'd be happy to refer you.”

Charles shrugs, but pockets the scrap.  
____________________

That night, when they're back at the apartment, he checks his messages. 

One is from Moira, asking how it went. Another from Principal Fury, asking him if he can cover a section of 11th grade physics the next day- one of the teacher's has that new flu going around, two from Erik, one apologizing, the other asking him if he'd like to meet the next day for coffee- Charles snorts at that, their track record with caffeinated beverages is hardly stellar- and one from a voice he does not recognise. 

_“Charles? Charles, I hope this is you. Uh, it's me. Cain Marko? I just wanted to let you know- I don't know if anyone's told you- Kurt's dead. Uh, I'm back in the country. They gave me leave. So, if you want to meet or something, maybe call me back? Right. Yeah. Uh. Take care of yourself, kid.”_

_\--beep--_

Charles sits down heavily on the futon, the metal frame creaking slightly. 

He is glad that Kurt is already in bed, because he's shaking, and his muscles are tight, and he bites his tongue until it bleeds because if he opens his mouth he's not sure what might come out. 

He is still sitting like that when Moira comes in, and he says nothing. 

He is silent as she asks him what's wrong, as she attempts to force the truth out, as she touches his hair softly. 

He is silent as she manoeuvres him off the futon and into his bedroom. 

He is silent as she hands him his pyjamas. 

He is silent as she realises that his hands are shaking too much for him to manage the buttons, and so dresses him herself. 

He is silent as she finds the piece of paper and threatens him with immediate death if he does not call her the next day. 

He is silent as he nods, slightly, and Moira breathes a sigh of relief. 

He is silent as she strokes his back softly, carefully, roughly delicate hands tracing over warm flesh and faded silver lines. 

He is silent as she falls asleep, head on his shoulder. 

He is silent as the clock strikes two. 

Then, and only then, does he cry.


	12. Chapter 12

_lub dup_

_lub dup_

_lub dup_

His heart was pounding in his chest, sweat dripping down his limbs. His breath came harsh and fast, hot air crystallizing into little white clouds that streamed out of his mouth. 

He smiled, as the adrenaline high caught up with him, and he found the white-hot space behind his eyes where nothing could touch him, and he _lived_. 

He has always loved to run. He tried not to read too much into that. 

He sprinted the last quarter-mile to the library, smiling as he ran.  
_________________________________  
He didn't have to think, here. 

Erik spends a lot of his life trying not to think. 

He's made mistakes, he knows he has, everyone has- but that is not the reason. 

The real reason, the reason that feels like a physical weight on his chest, that buzzes about his ears even now, as he sits in the echoing emptiness of the public library, staring at the GED prep book, is- well.  


_What if he never escapes?_

What if this is it? 

What if Shaw won? Succeeded, made him- not a monster, not quite, not like he was, but something else, made him weak, made him untouchable, made him into someone who- 

someone who failed. 

He doesn't think about it, because if he does, he's 12 again, standing in the line-up for the cafeteria, ignoring the look on the lunchlady's face, the snicker of Joseph Johanson behind him, as he scuffs his sneaker on the floor and mutters “I get free lunch.” 

He knew, growing up, that what other people think of you- it does matter. People who say it doesn't- much like the people who say that money isn't important- have always had it. 

He had dreams. It sounds silly, in retrospect, but he had them. He was going to be an engineer, a mathematician, an architect, was going to grow tall and strong and smart, was going to build his mother a house, a house filled with laughter and books and warmth, and she would never have to work again. 

At 12, he had two goals: not to be his father, and to protect his mother. 

(thinking about this now, his thoughts drift to Magda, and the children who he has never seen, never known, and he wonders if maybe he didn't fail at both of them after all.) 

When he was 14, skinny and silent and scared, he wanted to escape. Wanted to leave this man and never look back. He was going to make something of himself. 

(he had repeated it to himself, late at night. _notworthless notworthless notworthless I'llshowthemall_ ) 

When he was 16, broken down and rebuilt and broken again until there was nothing left but steel, steel covered in failing flesh and anger, he wanted nothing more than to leave. He could feel it, like a physical presence in the room- the walls closing in, trapping him, pressing him deep into this place of dust and soot and anger, promising him, _you will never leave._  
His days were filled with anger, with- not fear, not really, not anymore: it was only his body, after all- but with resentment, with _knowing_.  
He didn't sleep at night. The nightmares didn't come, not like they had at first- but in their place was panic, terrible, gut-wrenching panic, like he could see his dreams going up in flames before him, the knowledge that he was doing this, he was _giving in_ , he was never going to escape- just another asshole with a shitty childhood and no diploma working a shitty job for minimum wage, just another fucked up fairy-tale in this city of a million stories, just another goddamned all-American cliché. 

At 16, he threw himself into the moment, doing anything to outrun the steady, inevitable march towards his destiny. 

He cannot say with any sincerity that the decisions he made in those months were _wise_. They were terrible, the actions of a child for whom nothing was sacred if it meant a chance to escape the clutch of his skin- but the end result was- decent.  
He was on his own. 16 and alone, in a shitty apartment that he shared with a half-dozen other shades and thieves and runaways, people who understood his need to escape by any means possible, who had crawled or ran or jumped a bus to leave their selves behind. 

The next years- well. He's gotten here, hasn't he, and it burns just a little to wonder what twelve-year old Erik would have thought of a man who had failed in the one thing that had kept him company throughout his life- to escape. 

He looked at the book with renewed focus. He would _show them_. He hadn't fucking broken, and he hadn't fucking conceded. 

_  
Buffy and Chie push a crate across a smooth horizontal floor. If Buffy pushes with a force of 50N west and Chie pushes with a force of 35 N southeast, determine the resultant force È exerted on the crate.  
_

Erik sighed, and picked up his pencil. 

_È= [-50cos0, 50cos90°] + [35cos45°, -35cos45°]  
È= [-25.25, -24.75]  
|È|= √(-25.25^2) + (-24.75^2)  
|È| = 35.4  
Resultant force is 35.4 N.  
_

Erik smiled, feeling accomplished. He glanced at his phone absently. 

2:45. 

That had taken him _15 minutes_. 

He glanced down at the sheet of problems in front of him. There had to be more than 30 questions there.  
He swore quietly under his breath and continued to work. 

\--  
“'Erik! Charrrles, Erik!”

At the sound of his name, Erik looked up from his work. He rolled his shoulders as he did so, their cracking and popping seemingly deafening in the otherwise silent library. 

He glanced around, and was unable to prevent himself from smiling at the sight of familiar brown hair and faded woollen jacket. 

“Shh,” he heard Charles say, “Yes, I see him; hush, now, pointing's rude.”

Kurt seemed to give the notion serious thought- for roughly ten second. Then he grinned, and took off towards Erik's desk. 

“Errrik!” he squealed. “I see you!” 

Erik blinked, slightly surprised at the level of coherency in the boy's voice. He glanced at Charles questioningly, who shook his head. 

“Hello, then,” he said. 

Charles, who, being laden down with books, was several steps behind Kurt, smiled in return. “Hello.”

Erik bit his lip, trying to hide the laughter fighting it's way out of his chest. “I'd say we can't keep meeting like this, but...”

“..But that would be horribly cliché, and also implies that I'm a woman, so, you're not going to?” Charles said hopefully. 

Erik snorted. “Oh, I don't know, Charles, surely a man like yourself can appreciate the value of a good cliché.”

“I beg your pardon?” 

“Oh, you know,” Erik hid his smile. “The tragic, desperate single parent, trying to make ends meet and find their way in the world- it's straight out of a trashy novel.”

Charles raised his eyebrows. “Mmm. And that would make you the dangerously attractive man with the mysterious past who shows up to throw the lead off kilter- hang on, fuck it, you don't get to be that guy, that guy's an asshole.”

“Also you're not a woman.”

“No, but neither are you.”

There was a beat of silence. 

“Shall we both pretend that we have no idea what fine works of literary fiction the other was just referencing?”

Erik nodded. “That seems for the best.”

“What are you doing here, anyway?”

Erik pointed at the textbook, lifting his chin in a defiant gesture. _Wanna fucking make something of it?_

Charles nodded, and glanced at the work. “Oh, god, vectors. Those are such a bitch to learn.”

Erik gave him an appraising look. “Are you any good at them?”

Charles snorted. “Well, not to be immodest, Erik, but I do _teach_ the stuff.”

There was a brief pause, and then Erik opened his mouth, just as Charles did the same, and simultaneously said “Not that that means anything.”

 

Charles drew up a chair, first checking to see that Kurt was happily ensconced in the play area, and picked up a pen. 

Erik pretended not to notice the arm that now lay, ever-so-casually, on top of his, or the way Charles would glance up at him from the page and smile a small, secret smile. 

It's possible he was not altogether successful, because Charles smirked slightly the next time their eyes met. 

An hour later, having been booted out of the closing library by a stern-faced middle-aged woman in lifts, Erik bent to kiss the other man's cheek. 

“Thank you,” he said. “Let me buy you dinner?”

Charles chewed his lip in indecision. “I don't...”

“Come on. I owe you.”

Charles sighed. “Still not a girl.”

“What does that have to do with anything? C'mon. What's your fancy?”

Charles studied him with assessing eyes, before smiling slightly. “Indian?”

“Sounds great,” Erik said, and surprised himself by meaning it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates are going to be slow for awhile on this fic. I will finish it, I don't abandon WIPs, but writing this is extremely draining, physically and emotionally- although the characters' issues are not necessarily my issues, they are similar enough that many of the emotional responses are taken directly from the experience of myself and my friends and family. Because fanfic: cheaper than therapy.  
> However, this also means that it's an utter bitch to write, and I'm not in a terribly good headspace right now. RL has gotten pretty intense, and I'm too tired and vulnerable ATM to tap into these emotions. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.  
> There _will_ be an ending, I promise. I appreciate each and every one of my readers, and I truly do feel terrible about this, but I don,t think I really have an option.  
>  Updates will continue on my other fics, in the meantime. Thanks you for reading, and, again, I apologise.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place 2-3 months after the end of the last one.

Epilogue

He heard Cain before he saw him; the crunching of the gravel alerting him to the presence behind his back. 

He doesn't turn, and so instead they both stand still, hazing at the beautiful, dilapidated estate, at the boarded windows and overgrown grasses obscuring its pretension of grandeur. 

“Hard to believe, isn't it?”

Charles turns, at last, and almost recoils, because the man standing before him has Kurt Marko's face, his build, his features- but the eyes are different, a soft hazel instead of a snapping black, and webbed with fine lines, and the voice is rough and brisk but warm, tempered with the slight Virginia accent the Marko's were never quite able to lose.

Cain's eyes say that he sees this, sees Charles' momentary fear and pain, and so he continues. “The old  
man lost everything in the credit crunch. Far as I can tell, he's just been living like this. Didn't even go into town much- Mr Beacham said he had his groceries delivered.”

He smiles slightly. 

Charles smiles back. 

“It's just strange, is all,” he says. “That we're the last ones the left. The grand and mighty Markos.”

Charles feels his stomach clench. “You know about Raven, then?”

Cain sighs, and rubs his face with the back of his hand. Charles is suddenly struck my how _old_ he looks. 

They have grown up, both of them, and what has changed? 

The same roles of childhood, the teacher and the solider, played out for real across the stage.  
“Charles, you have to believe me- _I didn't know._ I was halfway across the world, there- I didn't  
know, kid, I promise you that.”

“She still had me as her next of kin. I tried to contact you- the message reached you, I presume?”

“I was out of the country. By the time I got it, it was too late to attend the funeral. I'm sorry.”

“Don't- it's fine. It was just me and Kurt and Father Steve, anyway. He was very helpful.”

“To the fag and the crack-whore? I gotta admit, you surprised me.”

“Don't,” Charles snaps, low and cutting. “You sound like your father.”

Cain flinched, as though struck with a knife. 

They are both quiet. 

When Cain speaks again, his voice is rough and harsh, like metal on tree bark. “I hate that,” He says softly. “Sometimes, I'll say something- and it's like it's not _me_ , you know? It's like it's him. Or- I got married, beautiful girl, name's Lydia- but she has two kids, right, a boy and a girl, and sometimes they'll just be so _awful_ , and I-”

Charles' chest tightened. “Cain- you _don't_.”

Cain looks horrified. “Of course not. But it- it's my first reaction, sometimes, and I have to, to put on the brakes, to remember-”

“What?”

“To remember what it felt like, the, the way his hands would- he had that ring, you remember, or the sound of you or Raven crying so damned quiet because you were scared someone would hear, and I remember being terrified, and so goddamn angry, and- I stop. Take a deep breath. Then I send them to their rooms. Did you know people actually _do_ that?”

Charles laughs, because it feels insane to admit it, but for a while they had been convinced that that sort of thing only happened on television- not for _real_. 

“So how have you been?” Charles asks. Neither of them approach the house. Neither of them want to. 

“Well, like I said, there's the wife and kids, they keep me plenty busy- and work, of course. They made  
me a captain last week.”

Charles grins. “That's wonderful, Cain. Lydia must be proud.”

Cain snorted. “Naw, she don't care much about that stuff, really. She's a kindergarten teacher. Great girl- drop dead gorgeous, heart of an angel, and completely unwilling to put up with my bullshit.” 

“An admirable trait in a partner, surely.” 

Cain smirks. “How about you?”

Charles laughs, just a little. “After I left, I- well, to be perfectly honest, first I fucked around in the city for a bit and made some terrible decisions, but eventually- I went to college. Got a degree in biophysics. I'm teaching now, and- and I'm pretty good at it, actually.”

He thought of the gangly boy with the ill-fitting clothes, dripping wet and silent, and a few well-placed  
phonecalls and mysteriously abandoned scientific journals that always managed to disappear. 

Yes. He was a good teacher. 

“Raven had a kid. Did you know?”

Cain shook his head. “I haven't seen her in a long time. Not since you left, really. I stopped coming home for the holidays. I was overseas for some of it.”

“His name's Kurt. He's- he's a little screwed up, but-”

“Screwed up how? Like, you and me, screwed up, or...?”

Charles shrugs. “I think Raven followed the Charles Xavier Model for early adolescence. Screwdrivers in Gatorade bottles, and so forth.”

Cain swore quietly, and spat on the ground. 

“He's a good kid, though. Great kid. He makes me less crazy, I think. I can't- you have kids, you know-  
it's like, it's not enough to just exist anymore. I actually have to live. And he- I started going to this group. For him. Because he deserves more, and I met this guy, and it's not- I'm still crazy, I know that, but I think maybe I'm less crazy?”

Cain smacked him on the shoulder, the friendly, fraternal touch melting what remained of Charles' defences. 

“Chuck, buddy, you're rambling.”

He was, and he knew it, but- “I don't want to go back in there.” 

Cain shrugged. “Then don't. Let's just- there must be people you can hire to do this sort of thing.”

Charles glanced at him, slightly awed. “You don't want to go back in there either.” 

He didn't know why he was surprised, but- he was. Cain had always been so strong. 

“It's not weakness,” Cain says finally. “You're not scared. I ain't either. But it's- I spent to much of my life worrying about this place, thinking about it, and for what? A shitty, broken-down house that was pretty once? We- there's nothing tying us here, Charles. We're not our parents.”

He was right. This house told a story, but not one that Charles needed to remember. A warm Eastern wind blew, and with it the banal tale of a woman who wanted to be loved and two broken boys and a girl growing up far before their time. 

A twig snapped behind him, and he started, just a little. 

Okay. So he was a little bit crazy. Isn't everyone?

Some people wear their damage for the world to see. Others hide it in boxes, in photo albums, and in burned secret places in their minds. 

He let out a breath he hadn't realised he had been holding. 

“No,” he says at last. “No, we aren't.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all she wrote, guys. The thing is, it would be possible to continue this universe forever- and, if requested, I'm not opposed to doing timestamps in the future- Erik getting his GED and going to college, for example, or Kurt's first day at school, but the main arc of this fic was really about Charles and his Issues, and for my purposes, those have been absolved. Obviously they haven't gone away, because that's nt how life works, but I think you can see a real difference between the Charles of the first chapter and the one of the 13th. This is Kurt and Erik's doing. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, reviewing, commenting and kudo'ing, it means more to me than you will ever know. I am incredibly grateful to be part of such a lovely, warm, and welcoming fandom. I appreciate each and every one of you, even the trolls who told me that I was doing it wrong, as those comments were burned to heat my tiny apartment during the dark and cold winter. Please let me know what you think, as well as your opinions on a possible sequel/ timestamps that you would like to see. Thank you especially with your patience while I worked out some of my personal issues, as apparently a mentally stable me= a mentally stable Charles. Who knew?  
> Hugs,  
> Quietbang


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ficlet set four-to-five months after the end of the story. 
> 
>  
> 
> _Charles will never have his day in court._

Charles will never have his day in court. He will never stand before a jury and rattle off accusations, clinical descriptions of traumas that the mind shouldn't have to bear. Kurt Marko, in the eyes of the law, will remain an innocent, and anyway it doesn't matter anymore, now that he is dead and gone and the only things left behind are the bruised and steely memories of two men who had a sister once. 

Instead, the letter will come in the mail, formal, from the solicitors. And when Charles opens it he will go pale, and still, and for a moment his muscles will forget his circumstance and he will go quietly and perfectly rigid, bracing himself against the flow of memories and hatreds and resentments that he thought he had buried long ago-

 _Kurt had been sick, he must have been, nobody does those things without a reason, addiction is a disease of the brain, and it wasn't mother's **fault**_ -  
The apartment is hot, and Charles is sticky with sweat and an absurd fear, because _the dead will lie quiet in their graves_ , and it didn't matter anymore. 

Why would he leave him money?

Was it penance? Regret, after all those years of sound and fury and, later, indifferent coldness. 

_You're not my father_

_And thank Christ for that, you're a fucking brat just like your mother_

_just like your mother- just like your mother- just like your mother  
_

(Parents, they say, don't tell their children fairy tales to scare them with monsters. They do it to teach them that monsters can be slain.)

He breathes deeply, remembering the exercises suggested by Dr. Adler. In, out, clinging desperately to each drift of scent, grounding himself in the present and away form that shabby house that had been beautiful, once. 

And suddenly he is furious, inexplicably, all-consumingly furious, because how _dare he_? Did he think that, somehow, that made it okay? That it erased the years- Charles had lost far, far too goddamn much of his life to worrying over _that man_. 

(He never blamed mother, even if she was just as cruel, in her own way, the highs and lows of hypomanic states and irrational anxieties blurred through pills and drugs and alcohol, her beautiful face pale and ashen in her bed, her nightgown worn and faded and slightly rancid. He loved her. That was crueler than hatred.) 

He sets the letter on the side table, pulls his shirt over his head (he doesn't hide his scars, not from Erik, and anyway they are old and not half so dramatic as they seem like they should be- faded silvery lines and pebbled flesh and some melted puckers where young flesh had come into contact with hot iron. If you didn't know they were there, you'd never see them. Erik knew they were there.)  
and balls it up beneath him to form a slightly damp pillow. 

When Erik arrived, Kurt in tow, who was babbling happily with fragments of real words strung together with abstract conjugations and conjunctions- which was more than he had hoped, more than he had dared believe in, and the almost-normal childspeak cracked through the fog of apathetic anxiety and he made a noise. 

It wasn't a whimper. Just a noise. 

"Charles?" Erik asked, taking a cautious step towards him. "Charles, are you- all right?"

Charles shrugged, and did not open his eyes. Erik glanced at him with worry. 

Kurt had no such compunctions, and flung his small, chubby (and wasn't that a relief? Charles was taking every goddamned pound that boy gained as a personal victory, thank you very much, children are remarkably resilient)  
body alongside his, prodding at his side. 

"Charles?" Kurt asked, "What wron', Charles? You cry?"

Charles smiled slightly, a cracked, tense smile. "No, Kurt. I'm not crying."

His lip twitched. 

Erik leaned down and scooped Kurt up. "Alright, mouse, let's leave Charles alone for a while, ok? Why don't you go- look at your trainset, or something?"

The happy assent he received from Kurt was like music to Charles ear. Kurt was okay. They were okay.  
(Those who do not learn from history, they say, are doomed to repeat it. They fail to mention that those lessons suck balls.) 

Erik sits down beside him, and the ancient futon creaks ominously. He glances down at the small man. 

"I'd invite you to come here," he says at length, "But you seem to be sweating like a wildebeast."

Charles cracks his eye open at last. "Yeah, you're really _not_ good at this sympathy thing, are you?"

Erik raised an eyebrow. "You have to tell me what I'm being sympathetic about, then." 

Despite himself, Charles smiled. Then- "On the table. Look. I can't-"

Erik frowned and grabbed the letter. Reading it, he frowned. 

"I didn't think the fucker had made another will."

"Nor did I," Charles said, sighing. "The cleaning service found it beneath some of his old papers. It's still valid- signed and dated, after the original statement to the lawyer declaring Cain his sole heir. It's not much, but I- I don't- I can't quite-" Charles stopped, sealing his lips against the tortured fragments. 

Erik scratched his beard absently, and Charles felt the comforting scent of motor oil and cleaners and the outside and Ivory soap drift over him like a blanket. 

"What are you going to do?" 

Charles is silent. 

"What do you need me to do?"

Charles glanced over at him. "Could you- put your arm around me? Just for a moment?" 

He blushed and tried to feel less like a twelve year old girl. It wasn't working very well.  
Normally, at this point he would laugh it off as a joke, brush by it with some charming self deprecation. 

He doesn't.

Erik smiled at him, softly and without malice, and tugs the younger man over onto his lap, holding tightly as though they both might break. 

Later, after Kurt has been fed and put to bed and Charles has cleared his head with several cigarettes smoked in succession, Erik will approach him from behind and Charles will not jump, and the harsh and rough skin-on-skin contact will break and remake him, and Charles will feel open and exposed and not at all frightened, because Erik is shattering next to him, and when the pieces get put back together some may end up switched, but its all the same, in the end. 

Even later, Charles will call the solicitor and be every inch the professional, and he and Cain will get gloriously, extravagantly drunk, and in the morning he will sober up and walk to the bank and open two accounts, one for Kurt's care and one for himself, for school, and he will not feel guilty about it. 

(Secretly, late at night, he will download the online application to graduate school at Columbia, and it will sit in his desk drawer amongst unmarked papers and confiscated rubber tchotchkes for several weeks before he dares to fill it out.) 

He will meet Erik at the door of his therapist's office, and catch a glimpse of the fearsome woman in white, before taking Erik by the (rough, calloused) hand, and walking with him in the daylight to a pizza joint, and he will realise, somewhere, without thinking about it, that he has grown up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, the author doesn't sleep, and instead of doing productive things like writing her WIPs or engaging in self reflection, she exorcises her feels via fic. This is the dubious result. Still, cheaper than therapy.


End file.
